


The Slaughter Marked Mechanisms

by WillowWispFlame



Series: So Sings a Song of Slaughter [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drinking, Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is a Mechanism, Slaughter Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Mechanisms Are Grifter's Bone, The Mechanisms Were The Archivist's College Band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25358242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowWispFlame/pseuds/WillowWispFlame
Summary: Those who fell prey to the temptations of the Slaughter find its mark doesn’t wash off easily.
Relationships: Raphaella la Cognizi/Drumbot Brian, The Mechanisms Ensemble & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: So Sings a Song of Slaughter [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775218
Comments: 16
Kudos: 174
Collections: So Sings a Song of Slaughter





	The Slaughter Marked Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired. Go to sleep at a healthy time, guys. Don't be like me and stay up until 6am writing.
> 
> feat. very rare (from me at least) Jon pov

Raphaella was in a tizzy, darting around her home like a hummingbird in a garden of flowers. Ben watched with a smirk on his face, every now and then calling out, “It is fine, Raph. Stop worrying,” when she got caught up in making sure that the snack bowls had just the right amount of food or worried about when the pizzas would be delivered. After the fifth pass worrying over the plates, she kept swapping between her good ceramic and plain paper, he stood up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her over to the couch. 

“I know I shouldn’t be so worried, Ben,” she mumbled. “But we haven’t talked to the others face to face in months. Everyone is going to be stressed about next week and I don’t want to add to that stress with something going wrong.”

He twisted to look at her, catching her chin in his hand to turn her face to look at him. He smiled. “Listen to yourself Raph,” he said. “There’s enough stress about this whole situation already, don’t add onto it by trying to make everything perfect. I’m sure the others will be too anxious themselves to worry about there not being enough snacks.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but paused, flicking her tongue out to lick her lips. “Alright, I just don’t want anyone to be hungry, you know?”

“Look, if we run out of crisps, Jordan and I will head over to the corner store to pick up more, okay?”

She laughed, clear and beautiful like chiming bells, and leaned into his side. “Where would we be without crisp runs, hm?”

“In a much worse place,” Ben said, deadpan. 

A knock sounded from the door, and Raphaella jumped up to answer it. Ben sat back, watching as she greeted Alex with a quick hug.

“Hey Raphaella, hey Ben,” he said as he spotted Ben over Raphaella’s shoulder. He turned back to their host and lifted a rustling plastic bag. “Hope you don’t mind, I brought ice cream.”

Raphaella’s face lit up. “Oh, let’s get that in the freezer right away. What flavor did you get?”

Alex followed her into the kitchen. “Just chocolate, though I also got a little box of raisins for Jon. Think he’ll appreciate it?”

They all chuckled.

“He’d better,” said Raphaella. “I swear, that man has the worst taste in sweets.”

Ben heard the sound of the freezer door popping open and then slamming closed, and then Raphaella and Alex appeared back in the living room, bearing a snack bowl each. As Raphaella set down the bowl of pretzels on the table, he leaned over to drag it closer, grabbing a handful. Alex sat cross legged at the other side of the table, leaning his elbows on the wooden surface. 

Raphaella didn’t have a chance to sit down again before someone knocked at the door again. In came Kofi and Jon, bearing several liters of soda between them. “We ran into each other at the store,” Jon said as an explanation, striding right into the kitchen after greeting Raphaella. “I feel like we’ve been carrying these bottles for miles.”

“Come on Jon, it wasn’t that bad,” Kofi laughed. “With all of the books you lug around, you’d think that you would have gained some muscles in those noodle arms.”

Jon scoffed good naturedly. 

Raphaella chewed her bottom lip visibly as she opened the door for Basira, who was joined by a just-now arriving Jordan bringing up the rear with a cardboard box. She took a deep breath and welcomed them, taking the bottle of wine from Basira’s hands and bringing it into the kitchen. Tonight was not going to start off on a sour note. 

“What’s in the box,” Alex called over to Jordan. 

He grinned, “The bakery near my place was going to throw out some pastries, so I snagged them for a steal.”

The friends all slid into their respective places around the room, Jordan and Raphaella joining Ben on the couch, Jon and Kofi sitting on the ground between the legs of the couch-sitters instead of their corner across the coffee table from Alex, Basira taking the armchair as was her habit. They eased into conversation easily, as if they hadn’t been avoiding gathering with each other for months. 

Jessica’s absence was a sore tooth they poked at with every glance at the empty space next to Alex. 

Jon was the one who finally tore off the bandaid. “Has anyone heard from Jessica?”

The others shifted uncomfortably. 

Kofi whipped out his phone, typing something quickly. After a moment, he set down his phone. “I just checked. Jessica hasn’t spoken in the group chat for six months,” he said quietly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Her last message was in April, saying that she and Pierrette were going to check out that circus.”

“What about Pierrette?” Alex asked. “Has anyone heard from her? Do we even have her number? Social media. None of us have visited their place?”

Jordan shook his head. “I dropped by a few months ago, remember? Place is owned by an elderly couple now. Must’ve moved.”

“Without telling us?” Raphaella asked quietly. 

“I thought I saw her work, months ago,” Jon offered. He had a pensive look on his face. “I dismissed the thought back then, I only saw her for a second in the lobby. She was heading downstairs to the basement.”

“What would Pierrette want with the Magnus Institute?” Ben asked, trying to twist to somehow see Jon’s face from behind him. That wasn’t a good tone. 

Jon was silent, frowning deeply. 

“Something is wrong with that place,” Basira said, tilting her plastic cup to her mouth to take a sip of soda. She waved her other hand, dismissing the looks the others gave her. 

“She- Pierrette could have given a statement,” Jon finally said. “The archives, down in the basement, take statements from the public. It’s the only thing I can think of. Statements as in stories, stories about supernatural experiences.”

“Like what happened to us?” Jordan asked.

Jon shot a glare behind him. “Yes, like what happened to us, though I don’t feel comfortable telling old Miss Robinson about how we kill people when we sing for them.”

Ben and Raphaella glanced at each other. Basira looked down into her cup. Jordan held Jon’s stare for a moment before looking away. Kofi crunched down noisily on a handful of pretzels. Ben dimly noted that half the bowl was gone now. Alex was messing with his phone, presumably trying to get a hold of Pierrette. 

Basira spoke up, “No missing persons reports for either of them, I’ve been keeping an eye on that. I’ll file them myself tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Raphaella said quietly. 

“Pierrette is back in France,” Alex said suddenly. 

“France?”

“France. Look, she made a post on Facebook. Has her face as the profile picture and everything.”

“Ugh, Facebook,” Jordan said. “Awful website.”

“I thought neither of them had Facebook accounts?” Jon asked.

“She made it a few months ago, I guess? The only public post is a health update,” Alex trailed off. “No, this page is run by her parents. They had Pierrette institutionalized?!” 

“What?”

“No way, did Jessica?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Quiet,” Alex said sharply. “It doesn’t say anything about her becoming violent or hurting herself, just something about paranoia.”

“Is it in French?” Kofi asked. 

“Uh, yeah, I can get the general idea though. I did take French in high school.”

“Jon, is there any way for you to see Pierrette’s statement?” Jordan cut in. “If anything will have information about what happened to Jessica, I bet it would be that.”

Jon’s voice was grim. “I’ll see what I can do, though I don’t have much hope. I’ve never met Miss Robinson, but from what I understand, the archives are a disorganized mess. I tried getting ahold of some statements about the Fairchilds,” he leaned back to look at Raphaella and Ben. “After you two encountered them. It has only been a week, but no one down there has been responding to my emails.”

“Have you tried going down to ask personally?” Kofi asked.

“Actually, yes. I tried three times, and every time the archives were locked and the lights were off. I finally asked Rosie, the receptionist, and she said that Miss Robinson was out on some trip to an archive convention with her assistant. I’ll try again once they are back, but hopefully the barrage of emails gets their attention.”

“Maybe the draw of the concert will get her back,” Raphaella said. “I mean, it is inescapable, we can’t help but feel the pull to perform.”

“Alternatively, maybe the concert won’t work at all, and we’ll get stuck,” Jordan said darkly. “Or if she’s stuck somewhere, we’ll all end up drawn to the Toy Soldier and sing there.”

“So what do we do about next week’s gig? Do we have a location?” Ben asked. “I was going to recommend crashing a rich people party, but we saw where that went.”

“And that’s when we were invited,” Raphaella added. “I think that they would have actually thrown us into the stratosphere if they knew what we did.”

“I have a few possibilities,” said Alex. “A couple bars that should be relatively vacant, and a Dennys. Don’t ask. Few, if any, windows. Soundproof walls, neighbors are vacant, et cetera.” 

That unnatural hunger gnawed at their minds incessantly, nibbling thoughts that everything would feel better if only they sang together. Sing as one. Sing until they are done. Let the blood flow, let the rage fill their bones. The songs of the past year were only a taste of the feast.

[]++++||=======>

The next week, the Mechanisms climbed the stage with their voices and instruments at the ready at Fisher’s Bar and Grill. The few patrons eyed them with barely cognizant drunken awareness. 

Their odd costumes and heavy makeup were out of place in the rundown restaurant, eye catching in a dangerous way. The type of look that dazzles before the danger it presents slices your neck open.

The only Mechanisms without notable makeup were Marius von Raum and Ivy Alexandria, who wore the simplest of eyeliner and eyeshadow. Jonny d’Ville had his extravagant black cracks that squiggled out radially from his eyes like something dark leaking out. Gunpowder Tim’s were more low key, simple circuit paths that cut vertically out from his eyes and then turned sharply horizontally. Ashes had sharp eyeliner wings like daggers stabbing out from the corner of their eyes. Raphaella’s winged eyeliner fit the literal definition, giving her a small second pair of black wings extending from her eyes in contrast to the complicated wings gracing her back. 

Drumbot Brian was the last on stage, sitting heavily on the provided cajon after rushing from the back where Ben had locked the kitchen staff in the back. He had the most detailed makeup, facepaint really. Metallic bronze dusted his whole face, silver lines outlined in black lining the contours of his face to make it look like he was sculpted out of metal sheets. 

As the Mechanisms started ‘Tales to be Told,’ an ache started deep within their guts. A pull they felt towards their missing member. It only grew stronger as they continued, unable to stop now that they had given in to the rush of song. It was like a rope tied around their middles, pulling more and more taut as Jonny stumbled through the sections where the Toy Soldier would normally join in singing ‘Rose Red.’ 

No one noticed the salty tears streaking through the facepaint like an eraser through pencil, especially the drunken brawlers starting to maraude through the bar. Blood from an especially brutal punch splattered onto the cuffs of Jonny's pants, staining the black cloth.

Raphaella la Cognizi came forward and sang the Toy Soldier’s parts, taking its position as the voice of the women who fought against the tyranny of King Cole. Rose, Snow, and Cinders, they were usually all sung by the Toy Soldier. 

The Mechanisms breathed heavily, sweat dripping as they worked through ‘The Aurora Strikes,’ Ashes speaking the lines that originally belonged to Nastya. They had not felt this much effort singing since before they were cursed. 

Ivy Alexandria’s flute was flecked with the blood of a drunk who had come too close for comfort, the deceptively solid instrument dripping droplets onto the floor. 

Finally, during ‘No Happy Ending,’ the rope snapped, air rushing through them all in a painful burst. The remaining drunks not lying in puddles of their own blood seemed to pause for that moment, tensing, before continuing their struggle as Jonny took the reins once more and guided the Mechanisms into ‘Drunk Space-Pirate.’ 

It was their most unstable performance to date.

[]++++||=======>

The Mechanisms came to, covered in blood and bruises, in Raphaella’s flat. Jon tried to gather his thoughts as he woke up, peeling Jonny’s steampunk outfit off in strips. His memories of the night floated away futally. He couldn’t remember anything but pain after the Mechanisms had limped out of Fisher’s. He was sore, bruises dotting his body in spots, but the pain from whatever bond had snapped had faded into nothing. Hopefully next time would not be as bad. He pulled up the hem of his shirt up to his face, wiping away the facepaint that was surely smeared into an unrecognizable blur by now. 

Jon wrinkled his nose at the dark splotch left on his shirt, and took stock of his crew. Ashes, no Basira, was spread across the armchair, legs hanging off the side. Raphaella and Dru- Ben were draped over each other on the couch. Jordan, Kofi and Alex had ended up in a cuddle pile on the floor, a mass of blankets and pillows from who knows where piled between them and the hardwood floors. And Jessica. Jessica was gone. 

He breathed in and out slowly, fingers digging into his shirt. That snapping, it could not have been something good. This curse had bound their souls together, inseparable, but pulling too hard on one of those bonds had snapped it completely. Was that it? Would they never see Jessica again? Was she- was she dead?

Jon’s mind went back to how he had become friends with Jessica, first sharing a common fondness for history. How she had helped him gather his thoughts about his asexuality, and shared her own experiences with being on the ace spectrum. She had been the one to point out that he liked Georgie, prone to ignoring his own feelings as he was. He remembered how they had become fast friends, started the Mechanisms along with the others in their friend group. He pressed the palm of his hand against his mouth, realizing that he’d never sing with the Toy Soldier again. Jessica was gone. 

Jon needed a smoke. And maybe a drink, if his liver wasn’t already shredded. 

[]++++||=======>

It was Jordan who figured it out first, having called the first shower. No matter how hard he scrubbed his face, the lines that marked him as Gunpowder Tim would not wash off. It wasn’t someone’s idea of a joke with a permanent marker, the lines were too perfect, too thin. 

Meanwhile, Ben had been able to wash most of his facepaint off at the kitchen sink, but the black seams he struggled with. “Raph, could you help me get this stupid face paint off,” he grumbled sleepily. 

Raphaella glided over, her own winged eyeliner somehow as immaculate as when she first applied it. She took the washcloth from him and gently ran it over his cheek, frowning as nothing came away. “Did someone buy some new black facepaint?” Raphaella asked. “It isn’t coming off easily at all.” 

Jordan stuck his head out of the bathroom. “I used eyeliner for mine, it won’t come off either. Everyone check, now.”

Raphaella dabbed at the corners of her own eyes, blinking rapidly as nothing came away. 

“Nothing,” Ben said. “The wings are still there.”

Kofi grabbed a paper towel and wetted it, dragging the damp material over his eyelids carefully. “It came off,” he said with a sigh of relief. 

“Mine too,” said Alex, showing off the base of his palm where there was a dark splotch left from his makeup. 

Basira had only just started to wake up, and stumbled over to the kitchen. Raphaella tossed her the washcloth, and she wiped at her own dagger-sharp wings. Nothing came away either.

“Where’s Jon?” Alex asked. “We should see if it got him too. Oh, speak of the devil,” he said as Jon came back into the flat.

“What?” he asked at their stares. His face was entirely clean of paint, the hem of his shirt stained dark with the remains. He had used the same stuff as the others. 

“We wanted to see if your face paint came off,” said Raphaella. “Thought it might be something wrong with the paint, ours won’t come off, but your face is clean.”

“Lucky bastard,” said Ben. Raphaella handed him the second spoon she dug out of a drawer. He groused at the thin black lines over his face through the distorted reflection. “I swear, if these are some sort of freaky cursed tattoo thing, I’ll go back in time and kill that stupid band dude again.”


End file.
